I’m too embarrassed to tell him about my gender dysphoria. “I’m exhausted,” I say. Maybe it’s the rehearsals, or school, or maybe it’s carrying around my secrets. I just want to tell someone. So I take a deep breath and tell Elijah about my parents, the letter from the conversion therapy place, running away, and lying to my parents about transitioning. And I explain why I’m Rizzo. Why—despite the pressure from Tess and Yazmin—I had to audition for a girl part to not raise flags with my parents. And when I tell him all of this—which feels like one long monologue—I tell my friend most of my secrets.
After I finish talking, a funny thing happens. I feel lighter—like a weight has come off my shoulders, even if only temporarily, and I can stand up straight. I can tell by the way Elijah listened that he cares about me. That it’s hard to hear. This is what I was worried about—my friends pitying me. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” I say.
“Sorry?” Elijah asks, taken back. “Dude, that broke my heart. I feel sad for you.”
“And that’s why I haven’t told people at SPA. I don’t want them to feel bad for me.”
“I don’t feel bad for you; I respect you more now. You ran away from home and came to New York. You’re basically my hero. But what happens if your parents find out you transitioned?”
“I don’t know. I have a plan, and if it works, they won’t find out.”
“Care to share?”
“They are coming in Friday for the last show, where they will watch their daughter play Rizzo. After the show, my aunt will escort them to a restaurant near the school, where I’ll join them.”
He shrugs. “That’s not too bad.”
“But,” I continue, “when I meet them for dinner, I have to wear the clothes they know me in. A flowery shirt and skirt.”
“No.”
“I need to be their daughter.”
“Oh, August, that’s tough.”
“I’m more nervous for that performance than Grease. If I get it wrong, if they find out I’ve transitioned, they will bring me home. Or to conversion therapy.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder. “If you need help, I’m here for you.”
“Thanks,” I say. We look around and notice that everyone has left. “I think we missed the actors.”
“Who cares,” Elijah sings. “We had this little heart-to-heart—that’s much better. I’ll walk you to the subway.”
I hate to ask, but I need to ask. “Could you not tell anyone?”
He pauses. “Of course.”
Fast-forward an hour and thirty minutes later, I run all the way home from the subway stop, carefully turn the key, and quietly open the door. My aunt switches on the lamp beside the couch. “You’re late,” she says in an ominous voice.
“I’m sorry. The subway stopped—”
“You can’t walk all over me, August. I gave you one rule and that’s to be home on time,” she slurs.
I put my hands up—she just needs to hear me—and say, “It was the subway—”
“August.” Her hands are shaking. “You have to plan for those subways. This is the second time. What would your mom do?”
“Nothing,” I lie.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she asks, then stands up, knocking a wine bottle off the coffee table. “Oh, shit.”
I pick up the bottle. “It’s empty,” I say, to reassure her.
“Yeah, because I was waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry, Auntie. It won’t happen again.”
“I’ve never been a parent. It’s awful when your kid doesn’t listen. You had me sitting here for an hour feeling bad about my entire childhood. Now go to your room,” she says, wobbling in the darkness. I want to help her to her room, but she’s not happy with me.
I head upstairs, wondering why she’s so upset. And why she mentioned my mom—that’s not like her. None of this is like her.
Fourteen
Sunday, October 13
8:33 A.M.
Today is officially hell day. Also known as “10 out of 12” because we’re at the theater for twelve hours but only allowed to work ten of those hours. I’m feeling hopeful. I chew my cereal as softly as possible to not wake my aunt. She’s usually up by now, but wine happened. She typically has a few glasses and goes to bed. But recently, she’s been drinking more.
I set my bowl in the sink. I have an hour and twenty-seven minutes to get to school. Maybe even time to stop at Starbucks and stock up on caffeine for the long day ahead. The subway is on a Sunday schedule, but I planned for it. After last night, I’ll never be late again.
“August,” Aunt Lil moans, wearing a tattered yellow robe. “I’m hungover and I blame you.”
I put my backpack on. “I accept all blame,” I say with a smile.
“My head is split in two.”
I clear my throat. “Last night, you asked what Mom would do.”
“I did?”
“You don’t remember?”
She shrugs.
“If I missed curfew, she would take away my phone and ground me for a month.”
“A month?” Aunt Lil questions while beginning her coffee process. “Look, August, I’m not trying to be your mom. I’m not going to take away your phone and shut you in your room. But you need follow my rules. My liver needs it, too.”
“Deal,” I say.
“Now get out of here so I can suffer alone.”
“Davina’s not here?” I ask, surprised. They usually are at their peak happiest on Sunday morning. Always heading to a brunch and art galleries.
She stops grinding the coffee beans. “We had a little fight last night.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling responsible.
Aunt Lil senses my guilt. “Nothing to do with you and your tardy butt. Now get out of here. Scram!”
“Love you,” I say, then run out the door. I will not be the late one.
9:59 A.M.
The actors—full of nervous energy and caffeine—sit onstage and watch Meena pace the floor holding her clipboard tightly to her chest. The all-powerful headset hugs her head and has been decorated with purple and yellow stickers. People are working on the sets and lights. There’s a makeshift director’s table in the middle of the audience where Mr. Daniels looks over some papers. Or just politely ignores us.
It’s a minute before call time and two actors are missing: Justin Sudds and Beth from the ensemble. Who will be the late one? Meena is ready to jump. Beth walks in, leaving the honor to Justin, aka Tess’s showmance. Every second that goes by leaves me more tense. The other actors feel it, too, but are also glad it’s not them.
Every tech week, there’s typically a moment when an actor messes up and gets lectured in front of everyone. The stage manager—and sometimes the director, depending on their temper—pounce on the sacrificial lamb to set the tone of tech week and make it serious. Up the importance. Heighten the drama. From the looks of Meena, the freak-out will come sooner rather than later. I lean over to Elijah and say, “I don’t think Justin will survive this.”
Elijah laughs. “I’ve seen her like this before. Meena is all bark, no bite.”
Poor Justin runs in with a panicked look.
Meena stomps over, waving her clipboard. “Justin, you’re late. Do you think there are special rules for you?”
“Sorry,” he says, hands up.
“You’re sorry? Just ’cause your dad is James Bond doesn’t mean you can make up your own rules.” She makes her star turn toward the cast. “Guys, tech week is no joke. We need you here on time, focused, and ready.”
“Yes,” Mr. Daniels says from the director’s table. “Meena is right, we need to be our best selves this week.”
“That’s strike one,” Meena says to Justin, staring daggers into him as he walks over to us.
And tech week has officially begun.
12:45 P.M.
We’ve been running the cue-to-cue for hours. It’s more mentally exhausting than physically—we basically run each scene, making sure
the sets and props are in place as the lighting cues are programmed and sound is mixed. Our job is to stand or sit quietly onstage, waiting to be told our next move. The set is behind schedule, the band is behind, and the lights and sounds are, you guessed it, behind. No matter what, every tech rehearsal runs late. If you’re on time, there’s probably something very wrong.
They are trying to run “Greased Lightnin’,” but the car hasn’t arrived from the prop shop. They’re running the scene with wooden blocks in place of the car, and everyone is trying to stay calm and make it to lunch without anyone getting murdered.
While we are holding for a light change, Anna comes up to the actors in the audience. She’s enjoying the role of assistant director—the small amount of power already gone to her head. She’s wearing black jeans, black shirt, and a beret. “Think of it, guys,” she says. “Conversion will be rehearsing in this theater next week. Broadway stars standing right here. How cool is that?”
It’s so cool.
“Meena.” Mr. Daniels’s voice comes booming over the speakers. The director is in control of the God mic and rules from his wooden table in the audience. A clipped-on lamp reflects his serious face.
“Yes, boss,” she says over the speakers. She also has a wooden table, farther back than Mr. Daniels, covered in a sound board, binders, and two laptops illuminating her face.
“Let’s move on to scene twenty-three,” Mr. Daniels says.
“All right gang, moving to ‘There Are Worse Things I Could Do,’ August to center.”
I walk to the center of the stage as marked by bright green tape. This is where my solo song will begin. This is my moment. I look up at the rows of lights above me. I’m always a little afraid they might come crashing down and end the show (and my life). My old school had a row of about ten lights. There must be fifty up there, all shining on me.
“Cue forty-three,” Meena says. The lights go dark onstage and the spotlight comes up on me. The light blinds me, warms me, and feels like home.
Mr. Daniels taught us about how they lit the stage before all these fancy lights were invented. Back in the 1800s, actors stood in the limelight—a bright light created by aiming a hot flame at a block of a mineral called lime from the theater’s balcony. The system wasn’t accurate, but the light would be brightest center stage, and that’s why they call it standing in the limelight.
I step into my limelight.
This is my first time performing the song in front of everyone. Our acting classes and after-school rehearsals focused on dancing and group scenes. I had an hour session with our musical theater teacher, Mr. Gonzales, working the song. And I’ve rehearsed it about a million times in front of my mirror.
The music begins and I straighten my back, stick out my chest, and hold my prop—a notebook—close to my chest binder. I’m Rizzo. Dealing with big issues. Always feeling different from others. I start singing—There are worse things I could do—and channel the hopelessness of Rizzo. I put everything into the performance, pretending the theater is full. I imagine my mom in the audience and I’m singing to her. As the song ends, I step back into my limelight and hit the last note perfectly.
The actors clap loudly and yell my name. A tear finds its way out of my eye. I wipe it away, hoping no one saw. I’m overwhelmed by the song—it reveals Rizzo’s heart and leaves me unsettled—but the tear came from standing in this light after so much darkness.
Mr. Daniels clears his throat over the mic. My heart pauses in fear of his notes. “Very nice, August.” My heart starts again. “We need to work on a few things, but very nice.”
“Thank you, August,” Meena says. “That’s lunch. One hour. Don’t be late.”
1:50 P.M.
After lunch, I took a walk to get some fresh air. Well, as fresh as you can get in New York. I’m almost back in the building when I nearly collide with Juliet.
“Hey,” I say, feeling disoriented to see her at school on a Sunday.
“Hi there, August. Oh, right, this is the dreaded tech week. How’s it going?”
“Meena has only lost her shit once.”
“Only once?” she jokes. “Well, you still have another twenty hours, right?”
“Thirty hours? A lifetime?”
“I’m sure you’re having fun,” she says, switching her purse from one shoulder to the other. “Any showmances?”
“Tess and Justin.”
“Too predictable,” she says.
“Hey, Juliet,” I say, getting shy. “You said I could ask you about transgender stuff?”
“Absolutely,” she says, smiling.
“Do you ever think, I mean, when you think about . . .” I trail off and stall out. Talking about my body isn’t natural to me. The words are more eloquent in my head. “I’m missing a part, and I wish I had that part, and I worry I won’t feel complete without it,” I say.
She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, August, you sweet thing.”
“Do you feel that way?”
She nods. “I do feel that way. Well, different than you, but the same. But not every trans person does. It varies from person to person.”
I nod and feel relief that my friend has the same feelings. “I’m glad I’m not alone on this,” I admit.
“August, you’re never alone. Ever. But I think—”
“Oh my god, two of my favorite people!” Anna says as she walks up the steps with a tray of coffees. “What the hell are you doing here Juliet? It’s Sunday!”
I forgot to ask that question. What is she doing here? I’m so wrapped up in me. “Yeah?” I add, eloquently.
“Oh, I use the studio on the weekend. Ms. Sanders gives me access.”
“I can’t believe you want to be at school on the weekend,” Anna says, then turns to me. “August, we’re going to be late. Let’s jam.”
“See you around,” I say to Juliet, wishing we could talk more.
“Hey,” she says to me, “let’s talk this week about that recipe for chocolate chip cookies.”
I laugh. I guess that’s our code. “Sounds good.”
“Oh my god, I want cookies,” Anna says, turning to me. “I didn’t know you baked. That’s adorable.”
2:35 P.M.
“You can look,” Mrs. Templeton says.
I’m about to get my first look at myself in the Rizzo costume. High-waisted jeans, white Keds, and a tight pink sweater. Mrs. Templeton wraps a bow around my head. “What do you think?” she asks, spinning me around to face the mirror.
“I look like Rizzo,” I confirm. And then remind myself that it’s just a costume. It’s always shocking to see myself in girl clothes. This isn’t me—I’m playing a character.
“Will you wear this?” she asks, holding a padded bra. “To give you some curves.”
My heart sinks. After Elijah’s warning, I want to stay on Mrs. Templeton’s good side, but I don’t want to wear that. “Do I have to?” I ask, in the nicest voice ever.
She frowns and thinks. “Nah,” she says, and tosses the bra on a pile of clothes. “You look great without.”
I hug Mrs. Templeton. “Thank you.”
“Easy, kid, you’ll squeeze the life out of me.”
“Can I change here?” I ask.
She gives me a puzzled look. “You don’t want to go back to your dressing room?”
I’m having stage fright. I don’t want to change in front of the guys, don’t want them to see my binder, and don’t want to be dressed like a girl in front of them. “I’m just going to change here,” I say.
“Sure thing, honey, I’ll step out.”
3:15 P.M.
Sitzprobe time—my favorite part of tech. Just watching the band ready their instruments is giving me life. This is our first time singing with live music and not recorded tracks. It can get messy introducing the vocals with the music—tempos go all over the place. But I can tell it will be completely magical to hear the voices and the music coming together with the acoustics of this grand theater.
&nbs
p; Actors bounce nervously in their chairs. Elijah is sitting by me. Jamaal might be his Kenickie onstage, but I’m his Kenickie in real life. I’m squeezing honey out of a stolen packet from Starbucks in the hope that it will help my vocal cords.
“I can’t wait for this,” Anna says, hovering over my chair. “You guys have worked so hard, and now the music comes alive.” She flips her hair and waves at someone. “And look at that hot cello player,” she adds.
“I’d rather not,” Elijah says, with a little too much attitude.
“I think I’m in love with Duncan,” Anna whispers. Elijah grips his seat. I want to help him but don’t know how. “We were meant to be together.”
“Are you guys together?” I ask.
“Not yet. But we kissed. And I could just tell.”
“How?” I ask.
“Just a feeling,” she admits.
Elijah rolls his eyes. I give his foot a kick. He clears his throat. “Good for you, girl,” he manages to say.
“You’re sweet,” she says, then heads back to her assistant director perch beside her dad.
Once she’s gone, I say, “They’ve only kissed.”
He shakes his head. “But she’s in love.”
I ask the question that needs to be asked. “Are you in love?”
He laughs. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Duncan doesn’t want to be pansexual, or bisexual, or anything but straight. Says it will hurt his career.”
“Maybe you should move on,” I suggest.
“You haven’t kissed him,” Elijah laments.
“Are we ready?” Mr. Daniels asks over the God mic.
“We are ready!” Meena echoes.
The music director waves her baton, setting the pace, and when “Summer Nights” begins, my heart matches the tempo.
5:39 P.M.
“Fifteen,” Meena warns from the intercom.
“Thanks, fifteen,” we all say back. The boys’ dressing room is packed with guys changing, talking, eating, and looking at phones. Everyone’s got a case of the sillies—symptoms include random outbursts of laughing, waves of euphoria, dancing, singing, and general backstage madness.
Act Cool Page 15
